When The Pawn Hits
by Lady Jaida
Summary: The life of the other half, seen through green eyes. Schuldig, from a young age, is taken from an asylum in Munich to Rosen Kreuz and the first bonds are formed. R&R.
1. Opening

**WHEN THE PAWN HITS**

**WHEN THE PAWN** hits the conflicts he thinks like a king what he knows he throws the blows when he goes to the fight and he'll win the whole thing 'fore he enters the ring there's no body to batter when your mind is your might so when you go solo, you hold your own hand and remember that depth is the greatest of heights and if you know where you stand, then you know where to land and if you fall it won't matter, cuz you know that you're right........ 


	2. Chapter One: The Beginning

Madness, I say, madness. In the beginning, I posted this fic to ff.net and it got taken down. Now, edited, and added to, it shall be posted again. Please, please please please, R&R, and also, enjoy!

  
  
**Chapter One : The Beginning**

"All my life is on me now, hail the pages turning."

There was nothing different about him that separated him from the hundred or so other students. He was a bit young, perhaps, but, as in all of his peers, his eyes spoke of an age beyond his years. He was thin, quite scrawny, and even a bit scrappy looking. Fresh from an asylum in Munich. A little ghost in the middle of the white room.

He was dressed in white, as well, a high collared suit that hid his rib-thin, oddly angled body and obscured his sex. By the length of his hair and the long dark lashes of his eyes, he could have been a girl. A strange looking girl, or a particularly feminine boy. His wrists, which were hidden by the overlong white, almost colorless, sleeves of his regulation schoolboy outfit, were still oddly padded with baby fat, while the rest of him, in direct contradiction, was underfed, bony. Hips jutted out beneath his dipped in stomach. Bony knees were knobs on his stick-like legs. His cheekbones were prominent in his baby-doll face and his neck was long and graceful, like a swan's. Parts of his form clung to child-hood, desperate and longing -- his wide eyes, his pudgy wrists, his underdeveloped, immature body. His skin was paper-thin and pale.

Standing in front of the Three Elders, he was nothing much to look at. The wide, empty room dwarfed him, made him paler. It was bright, but there were no windows. It reeked of artificial creations, the strength of hands and metal, and power, which glowed around the long table like a shield and a warning. The one woman, face creased and ever smiling, had her hands, folded, before her, knuckles warped, protruding, from the mess of skin and flesh on the table. Her nose was blunt, smashed into her face. She seemed, to the untrained eye, quite kind, but everything about her was planned. Cruel. Even he could see that, and he was only a child.

Then again, he had never really been "only" anything.

"Name?" she asked.

Like bells, he thought, then shook his head. Like the sounds that came from the fencing hall in the early morning. Like death, perhaps. Rich and cool.

He didn't have to answer. A man who held a manilla folder spoke for him, with a thin, nasal voice. He was pale and wiry and a bit stooped, but his eyes were quick and darted from face to face with a strange, youthful sharpness. It was odd, to see a man like him in a place like this - young inside old rather than old inside young. There was nothing left to him, though, besides his long, deft fingers and his shrewd, alert eyes. His body had been ravaged beyond human by the strength of the altered being within.

There were so many like that in Rosen Kreuz.

"He has no name," the quick-eyed man said. His lips were thin and tight and they did not know how to smile.

"Age?" the woman commanded directly after the answer, eyes crinkling into crescents.

Somewhere unimportant, in the corner of the room, someone small wrote a few words down on a white notepad. Slowly, the man with the folder and the knife-sharp eyes turned towards the short, painfully awkward figure in the center of the vast room, who was tugging at the hem of his little white shirt.

"Sieben," he whispered. All eyes on him. The woman crooked her finger toward him, beckoning him closer. Everything quiet and still and oppressive in the air around him and, for a moment, he couldn't move. And then he took a step forward, and another, towards the woman who was stone inside a mask of kind smiles. She had not forgotten how to smile. She was using it to hide the shivering cold inside her that made him sick, made him want to fall to his knees. It was fake. He had always known to hate liars, and that was what she was.

"Sieben?" she queried in a lower voice. The boy had passed the first test. He had ventured closer through the darkness that surrounded them. Through the death.

As she bent forward over the table, palms pressed down on the shining mahogany, he wondered if she left fingerprints. Like a tiger, with a cruelly smiling face. He felt like prey.

"Sieben," he repeated.

"He's young."

"He's frightened."

"He's powerful." The eldest man spoke first, then the one with the hat, whom the boy had been watching, wary, and then the woman again. 

"We have researched his history," the quick-eyed man spoke again. As the old woman nodded, he went on. "His parents were at Auschwitz near the end of World War II when they were very young. There, they were tested with an experimental drug that has yet to be identified; it was perhaps manufactured by Estë agents themselves." He paused. Licked his lips. Cast a glance at the boy and then back to the Elders. "This drug did not affect them directly; however, the father did show signs of an empathetic nature before he died. The child--" he gestured towards the boy " -gathered the residual affects of the ddrugs, still inside the mother and passed on to him from the father. A class one telepath, but not of a purebred nature." There was silence.

The flame-haired boy stood perfectly still, close to the long table. This was the first he'd ever heard of his parents and now he was thoroughly and meticulously going through the quick-eyed man's thoughts, shuffling through his knowledge, to find more. No one noticed but the woman, and she grinned. Feral. Like the tiger that she was. He felt a little slap on his wrist, purely mental, and stepped back. A child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"He knows nothing else," she whispered, and he took another step backwards. "Are you afraid?" She paused. "Smart boy. I suppose we are all guilty of something. Perhaps you are guilty of fear?"

"He is guilty of many things," the quick-eyed man informed, eyes lighting up. The Elders lifted an eyebrow each, and it was quite a comical sight, for a moment. The boy, however, was not watching them any longer. His jade eyes, wide with knowledge and pain, were fixed in terror on the man who spoke. The man who knew. "He is guilty of murdering a family in Berlin. A mother, a father, and a little girl. Three times guilty." The guilty one opened his small, rosy mouth to speak, and no sound came out; perhaps that was a result of his own sudden emptiness, perhaps the old woman had decided he would not talk just then. 

"Mein Schuldig Sieben," she murmured with a low, chilling chuckle to follow her words. He could understand the English they had been speaking well enough, but to hear his own native tongue used to name him, for what he was, was quite chilling to his supposedly young ears. "We have taken a liking to our little _Schuldig_," she said abruptly, turning away from the guilty one, and then everything was quiet. He saw the mouths of the Elders moving but he heard nothing and the air was thick and heavy but far from sweet around his body. The small, unimportant someone was scribbling hurried down on his notepad, and then, thin as a shadow and vague as a ghost, that someone was by his side and had taken his hand, pulling him to the great wooden doors that led out of the room and into the narrow hallway.

He struggled to hear what was being said, the tips of his

nose and fingers numb. Already, he had made a small tear in the fabric of the sound barrier, but it was sticky like a spider's web and for a moment, he fumbled, stuck. Then he tore through, his body by the door but his ever developing mind still inside.

"He will be useful," the woman said, "And you will train him -"

"--In more ways than one," the man with the hat spoke, cutting in. Still the ancient, carved smile did not falter on her curved lips.

"By the age of twelve he will be trained and ready for us," she went on, with a soft hiss of warning.  


"By the age of twelve he will be trained and ready," the quick-eyed man echoed, promised. "He is yours. Your Schuldig Sieben." Then the door slammed and the boy was knocked back into his body with the echoing sound.

"Your classes will start tomorrow," a wisp of a voice murmured, barely audible.

He paused, his own voice soft and unsure with English words. "Is that my name? Schuldig?"

"Your name is dog," came the reply, "any other name is purely vanity." A pause. "If they call you Schuldig, then you are Schuldig." And he was sent off down the hall and back to his room, newly named, and soon to be newly bred.

~*~

  
Rosen Kreuz was a large, gray building of a nondescript stone. It rose into the sky and was surrounded by a protective wall that was jarring to any trained eye. The school was more like a fortress of war than anything else, but the wall was never built with the intention of keeping things out. It fenced the area in, crept closer to the building every moment a person wasn't looking, and its sole purpose was to insure that what went in stayed in. 

Rows of almost colorless trees spiked the space between the wall and school, growing from the dead, cold earth like fleshless hands and clutching for the unseeing, uncaring stone of the wall. Their forms were bent towards the wall, branches all on one side, turned away from the hidden practices of the schoolmasters. They were broken into gnarled, twisted, obedient forms, arms opened to freedom, reaching for the liberty beyond the harsh line of the wall.

No one was allowed into the "garden", anyway. The thin space of pale dirt and brittle, bare trees was empty of man and woman, bird and beast, and had been since Rosen Kreuz was built.

One spot was empty of everything, even the disintegrating bodies of the trees that grew with no water and and weak sunlight. In was in the Northern Corner. Night and day the sounds of screams could be heard through the thick walls and the trees had long since stopped growing there. In the night, the stones of the Northern Corner glowed a soft red, brightness which oozed and leaked power over the rock, shining in the darkness. 

In his five years at Rosen Kreuz, Schuldig was sent to be punished in the Northern Corner once. He had been there for almost five years, and, though he knew how students were effected by Estë's patented brand of punishment, for a moment, it seemed as if it wasn't going to be that bad. He was ushered without a word into the Northern Corner, where the sounds of purely mental screams echoed in his dreams, louder and louder as his powers developed, giving him nightmares through the night. The doors to the Black Room were shut behind him and... He was never foolish enough to have another reason to go back again.

The inside of the building was white. The walls, the floors, the ceilings -- everything. White and bright lights that glared from above. Every classroom was the same. Every dorm room. Except for the Northern Corner, and the Black Room, where those who had misbehaved were sent, all the rooms seemed to be made of a generalized mold.  


In these cold rooms Schuldig sat for four years, his mind probed and his body explored. He was developed into two beings at the skilled hands of many teachers, each molding, each knowing, each cold as ice. One being accommodated the powers of his mind, which reached beyond anything Estë had seen before. The tendrils of his mind could Dreamwalk; could cross the world over directly while he stayed in his small room, without leaping from mind to mind like some sort of hopscotch; could discover thoughts left over in inanimate objects hundreds of years after their owners had moved on. He was pure strength sheathed in a thin, underdeveloped body -- every bit of vitality he had since he was born until he had been brought to Rosen Kreuz had been given to his mind. Nothing had been left over for his thin form, which was nearly starved when he was found. As a result, he never ate much, and it took little to feed him. He was quite eager to learn, those first four years, his mind hungrily drinking up the knowledge they offered him. The muscles of his potential were at last exercised. The idea of school was new to him. The idea of training was at first exciting and then tiring. A boy who had never slept a night through, he began to learn what it was to be weary. He had no nightmares in the pitch black of his sleep. In this time, he learned how to Dreamwalk and not become lost in the misty, twisting coils of a person's imagination. He learned to make barriers between his own thoughts and the thoughts of millions of others, so as not to lose himself to the cacophony of the screaming voices that raged, silent to all but him. That was one of the only blessings Estë brought.

After the first year, he could slip, unnoticed, into even the strongest of his teachers' minds and steal thoughts as if they were common, cheap trinkets that meant nothing in the wide scheme of things. But that meant confusion. He came away unsure of himself, unsure of where he ended and someone else began. 

In his third year, his memories were sorted, ordered, finally understood as his own. His body was cultivated to keep up with his mind, and he became quick and thin and muscled; speed filtered into his sharply angled body, weaving in and out with his effect on other's thoughts. In this time, he was changed from boy to man to machine of destruction, from a being with potential to a being of extreme use to a cultivated weapon. The newest model of a telepath, hardly understood and highly feared among dorm rooms, he was the gypsy German "mistake" who could do anything the teachers set him to.

His second being was raised for a second set of the Elders' wishes. He learned the secret language of his body in an entirely different way, how to move his hips in time to another's, how to stand with those hips angled just-slightly forward, how to lie down so that his flame colored hair could pool around his face like fire. The music of the bedsheets was wrapped around his lithe form, and he was soon the top of his class of those who had been designated by some unknown leader to please. And he was good at pleasing. It seemed so, from the very beginning. At the end of each "lesson," he had always been called a good student, and was sent off to his other classes. A good student. A good boy. 

Never did Estë have qualms with the loss of innocence. They cultivated it. Schuldig was a whore in two ways; his mind fucking with thousands and his body, ever left behind, being the "good student" with only a mere few. His jade eyes no longer sparkled with naiveté, with innocence; they sparkled with knowledge, and with the cool shield knowledge brought. 

In a mere four years, he had been completed. He had one year left until he was handed over to the Elders. To the scowling, silent man; to the calm, joking one in the hat; to the cold woman with the cruel, deceptive smile. The three he could never forget.

Unsure of what to do with him, the faculty sent him into the pile of the unwanted. He became in his last year a common whore, used to please the best of students, the ones who had not yet been sent out to do Estë's bidding. He became a reward for good work as he himself faded away from attention. Not forgotten. Merely put on hold. Perhaps, the last year was a way of preparing him for what was to come. It was also his vacation.

Quite simply, Schuldig came to enjoy what he did. With sweat and sex and tangled bedsheets, with cheap, sloppy, hungry kisses, with the joining of two bodies, came silence. With silence came rest. Peace. In all ways, the young German quite savored it. He knew he would always be everyone's favorite student.

And it was in his last three months that he met a young American, top of his class, top student in the school. An oracle, sixteen years old to his mere eleven. It was in his last three months that he became Bradley Crawford's reward.  
  
  



	3. Chapter Two: The Oracle and The Telepath

**Chapter Two: The Oracle and The Telepath**  
  
  
"I wouldn't know what to do with another chance  
If you gave it to me  
I couldn't take the embrace of a real romance  
It'd race right through me  
I'm much better off the way things are  
Much much better off, better by far, by far  
I wouldn't know what to say to a gentle voice  
It'd roll right past me  
And if you chalk it up you'll see I don't really have a choice  
So don't even ask me  
I'm much better off the way things are  
Much much better off, better by far, by far...."

He stood by the wall opposite to the door, brushing his wildfire hair, eyes lightly closed. He kept himself well groomed because he loved to play with his hair. He loved it to shine, and glisten, and shimmer in the light. No one ever brushed his hair for him, although sometimes, he longed to have fingers that were not his own running through his fiery mane. 

His shirt was unbuttoned, because sometimes, those sent to him were clumsy, and he didn't like sewing buttons back on. It took time and energy and he was definitely not a patient person, suited for the tedious task of sewing buttons. 

He ran the brush through his silken hair, staring down at the floor. For all his small form, he was no longer a child, though he was only eleven. He had become any age those he pleased wished him to be. It was no longer a fact that belonged to him. Hardly any part of him was, anymore. His body he had given away long, long ago, and his mind had never truly been his own.

Schuldig could hear the boy coming, feel his presence tugging in the back of his mind. A bit repressed. A bit too ordered. He paid no more attention. He was good with the boys; he always made the ones who thought they were in control think differently. In fact, he had even become a bit bored with the process. Ritualistic, repetitive. He had yet to find a challenge.

With a whoosh of air the door was pushed open, and Schuldig crossed the room, placing his hairbrush down on his desk, then sweeping the flame colored silk back over his shoulder. The boy that stood in the doorway was quite white, like everything was in Rosen Kreuz. That, Schuldig had expected. He turned to survey him calmly, jade eyes running over a surprisingly well-muscled form hidden beneath the white uniform of the upper grades; his suit was Americanized, though, which was unusual. Mocha eyes were hidden by a sheen of light glinting off glass, his glasses slipping down just slightly over his perfectly carved nose. His skin was pale, very pale, his black hair a dark contrast to the rest of him. A few wisps fell into his eyes, over his pale forehead.

He did not seem pleased.

This startled Schuldig, although nothing in the jaunty angle of his body or the nonchalant curve of his lips in a familiar smirk revealed that. Usually, those who came to him were hungry for release from everyday monotony. This boy, who looked to be a good five years older than Schuldig himself was, was, while repressed, not at all like that. He stayed in the doorway, silent, looking on Schuldig with a mixture of annoyance, contempt, and pity.

It made the young German feel quite insignificant. It made him a bit angry, even. He didn't like the look, certainly; he wasn't made to be pitied or condescended to.

"This is my reward?" the boy snorted, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with his index finger. "They think they're doing me a favor..."

"If you waited to see, you might think it so." Schuldig frowned just slightly, mentally. No easy game this would be. A challenge, perhaps?

"I know how it would be," the boy said calmly. "It is no favor to me." A brief, unnoticed probing of the boy's mind discovered the boy was an oracle. Schuldig's frown deepened. Being judged before judging. Something angry rose up within him.

"The future can always change," he responded quietly, stepping forward while shedding his shirt to the floor below. He knew how he looked, how his body, more curved than a normal male's shape, was pleasing to so many. He was beautiful by all standards, his looks exotic and his charm cultivated into an art form. Yet, something like fierce indignation was brewing inside him, where he had never felt something like that before. He would have this boy, or this boy would have him, and he would make sure that the boy before him would cry out his name into the night. Schuldig. Laced with pleasure. Laced with need. 

He would make sure of it.

He came closer, a hand lifting to the boy's tie.

"What's your name?" He murmured, leaning up to nip at the boy's ear. 

~Bradley Crawford,~ his mind replied, immediately. Instinct. Schuldig loved that about the reflexes of one's thoughts. They always worked to his advantage.

"You don't need to know that. Get off of me." Bradley Crawford pulled away with a snort of disgust.

"Do you prefer Crawford or Bradley? Or Brad...?" Schuldig moved closer, an arm slipping around his waist, a hand slipping up his chest to undo the buttons in one smooth, practiced motion.

~Crawford.~

"Get -off- me." He pulled away again; more forcefully, this time. "Get away. How many people have claimed those lips, before me? How many others have been rewarded with your body, have earned the rare gift of you?" He paused, eyes narrowing behind the cold glass. "Do you even know? Or is it too many to remember."

Schuldig recoiled from the words as if the boy before him had lashed out with a fist, striking a harsh, physical blow to his body. He was not a cheap trinket, one given when children at a different school might have gotten three gold stars. He was the top of his class, he excelled above all others. He -- what was he? 

He shook his head faintly, clearing it of those hideous thoughts. The Elders would be angry if he didn't give this boy his proper reward. They wouldn't care whether the boy wanted it. The boy needed it. Release: they all needed it. Schuldig paused, then moved closer once more. He would just have to make him see. He used that part of his brain, long-familiar and ever-useful, and made the other one more... amenable. 

One of his slim, knowledgeable hands ran up the side of Crawford's pale neck, cupping his cheek, urging him down for a slow kiss. He would make this boy see. The fingers of his mind probed Crawford's deeply, and found what he had expected to find. The teen liked to have control. So be it, then. Schuldig could surrender. He had done it before.   
  
He tugged Crawford towards the bed, dropping back against the sheets and pulling the teen over him. He gave no struggle to the redhead's ministrations; he removed Schuldig's clothes even as Schuldig undressed him. 

After all, Schuldig was the best student there was.

He tangled their bodies together urgently, hungrily. Of course, Crawford returned the urgency, as Schuldig knew he would; it was rare that a student could be blessed with release, release that came by the joining of two bodies. And, for the first time, this was something Schuldig wanted. He was usually passive about love-making, allowing his mind to drift off into silence, and enjoying it that way. There was nothing to look forward to but that, but even that only left him empty, possessing a blinding headache when it was over, screams he had refused to voice the night before echoing in his brain. But this had been a challenge. He had won something, even if he hadn't won it fairly. Now, he took time to notice things; how, even controlled, Crawford was oddly gentle with Schuldig's thin, almost frail body, how he sighed softly whenever he was especially pleased by something, how a few beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. His eyes were softened with each kiss. When the glasses were removed, Schuldig could finally see them clearly, framed by dark lashes, warm and somehow reassuring.

Even as their pace sped up, both their cries echoing off the soundproof walls, Crawford's kisses stayed sweet, lingering on Schuldig's hungry, experienced lips.

The German had never been kissed that way before.

After Schuldig's initial urging, Crawford took command, as the German knew he would. Their bodies twined together; Crawford held him down, made love to him, fingers tangled in his fiery hair.

Tangled in sheets, the smell of sex and sweat, and something else. Perfect warmth. Schuldig sighed softly against Crawford's bared chest. 2:40 in the morning.

"You can't sleep?" A weary voice asked in English. Schuldig blinked. He hadn't known this night's lover was still awake. And, if he had, he certainly wouldn't have expected Crawford's tone to be one containing concern. He had long since taken his influence from the teen's mind; he had half expected to be alone, now, after a bout of indignant rage on Crawford's part.

A moment of silence.  
  
"Do you prefer Crawford or Bradley?" The German asked again, for the second time that night, wondering if now the answer would change. He preferred always to answer questions with questions. "Mein Amerikaner..." The American frowned just slightly, tracing absent circles over Schuldig's spine.

"Why am I still here?" Something told the redhead that Crawford never answered questions, either.

"Because you were wrong."

"... Perhaps." A moment of silence. Schuldig shivered, trailing a finger over the muscles outlined on Crawford's stomach. As if on instinct, Crawford flexed them just slightly, allowing them to become more defined beneath the pale skin. Schuldig paused, then leaned over to press a soft kiss to the one little line by his navel. Again, he felt a tensing. The German rested his head there, felt a relaxing once more. "Because it's warm, actually." Schuldig felt a little unsure at that. He hadn't expected it, certainly.

"Will you be coming back, then?"

"... Perhaps."

They lay like that for a while, simply silent, exchanging the occasional sweet kiss or tender touch. Schuldig was suddenly, infuriatingly shy in the American's presence, a bit unsure, a bit hesitant. Strong pale arms held him close to an amazing warmth, stroking his elbow, or the dipping curve of the back of his hip, or a shoulder blade, strange places to focus on on his body. Places that no one had ever before touched. Places that became Crawford's as soon as his fingers grazed over them.

It was morning all too soon. Neither of them had slept, and Schuldig suddenly wasn't able to search Crawford's mind for a reason why the American had stayed up all night with him. It wasn't because Crawford had rebelled against the invasion of privacy and blocked him out, because he hadn't. The German didn't know why. He certainly wasn't developing a conscience, at this age.

At an unspoken agreement, they both stood, and both began to search for Crawford's clothes. Silently, the American pulled on his pants and Schuldig buttoned up his dress shirt, running a regretful, almost longing hand over the teen's bare chest before obscuring it entirely behind the white, chaste fabric. The room was still dark as Crawford shrugged his jacket on and Schuldig closed his eyes, remembering the way the muscles of the American's shoulders flexed beneath his hands. _Perhaps_, he had said. _Perhaps_.

"Goodbye," the German murmured after a moment's hesitation. Crawford stepped towards him, pausing, then leaning down to claim his lips in contemplation, in thought.

"I am hardly ever wrong," he whispered into Schuldig's mouth, and then he pulled away, leaving the young German all too cold and all too alone. ~I _will_ be back...~

People's minds were always honest. They couldn't hide lies, they could only give promises, wishes... the truth.

Schuldig gave a sigh of relief, a sigh of something like gladness. The American would be back.   
  
The next night, Crawford came. And the night after that. Each night, when Schuldig was designated to please, Crawford stepped through his door. The tall seventeen year old from America -- Schuldig had searched his mind for this information; later, Crawford told him -- was cool when he first stepped in the door and blazing when he took the young German into his arms. After years of relinquishing his body to anyone who desired him, Schuldig had given his body to this boy, and this boy only, for a full month. 

For a full month Crawford had been a regular visitor to Schuldig's bed, the only visitor, in fact. When he was there, his host found silence, indescribable pleasure, and deep, comforting warmth, feelings which, he was slowly coming to realize, he had never found during even the most advanced of lessons. In the warmth and heat of their love-making was everything either of them ever wanted, and, for Schuldig, it was all he could ever need. They took of each other, and gave to each other in return, and Schuldig came to wait each night almost eagerly for the knock on the door that would signify the American's presence. For he would always knock. 

And then, one day, even though he had said that he would arrive, Bradley Crawford's knock never came on the hard wooden door.  
  
Bradley Crawford was always on time.

Schuldig waited for an hour at the door. He had never been one to think about patience. Finally, he stood, tugging on a warm jacket -- the school was cold at night -- and traversed the halls to the room of his only obsession, the room that he had never seen.

He knocked, and the door swung open. He allowed his eyes to rove for a few seconds over his surroundings. The room had nothing about it, nothing to distinguish it from the room of any other student, and he had expected that. Estë liked it that way, for it discouraged jealousy. But Estë had failed in this mission, for Schuldig would have done anything for this room. In that bed, Crawford slept most nights. In that closet were the pristine jackets that he wore, that he would wear across the halls all day and then, finally, that he would have on when he came to Schuldig's room at night. 

And all around, permeating the very stone of the walls, was that scent. That glorious smell of just him. Bradley Crawford. Neat and clean and intoxicating. Had Crawford not been there, he could have taken it in for hours, never bored, studying how immaculately clean and neat it had been kept, rifling through the few books on the desk. But there were more pressing matters. Crawford was standing before him, already mostly prepared to go to sleep. After a slight pause, hesitation he only gave into around the American, he moved close, wrapping his arms around the other's waist. Crawford flinched. 

"Why have you kept me waiting?"

Crawford was silent for a moment, though he relaxed a bit, in Schuldig's arms. His only reply, though, was another, fierce blow to Schuldig's expectancies. "I would rather not, this night." The German was dismayed. He paused again, licking his lips, trying to pull the other closer. His attempts failed.

"Why...?" He queried, jade eyes looking up at Crawford's pale face. Questioning. Unsure. Hurt.

"I don't feel well."

Without having to check, Schuldig knew this was a lie. Crawford was never ill; the students at Rosen Kreuz were hardly ever sick. Sickness was a sign of imperfection, and was therefore intolerable. He sighed deeply. Crawford had lied to him, and now he had no choice but to let himself go, and find out what it was that the American had lied to conceal.

He dipped his consciousness into the strands of Crawford's memories, unseen, unfelt, unheeded, and therefore unstopped. He passed over a grueling final the teen had taken earlier that morning, searching. He walked with Crawford from class to class, through the hallways, until he was called up from his seat near the end of the day as the rest of the students filed out of the white classroom. Unsure of himself, Crawford tucked his books under his arm and stepped forward to his teacher, who smiled and -

_Oh hear my prayer you people please_

--it was unclear, it was cold, he could see Crawford's form, pressed up against the desk, and then he was seeing things through the American's eyes, everything blurred into fuzzy unfocus, even the face before him, leering into his eyes...a hand on his hip, rough, that would leave bruise marks for a few days, another on the back of his thigh, harsh and grasping and making something, a lump of cold fear, a lump of heavy despair, hang in his stomach--

Incline your tiny minds to me

--and suddenly his pants are gone, where have they gone, and what-God-fuck-no--

It's time to kiss the candyman

--and it hurts, because there's nothing to stop the roughness, the careless handling of his body...a dog...a dog...those are his cries, muffled by a calloused hand pressed over his mouth, blocking them out...his cries of "stop" and "no" and then "please please please..."--

It's high time you were here instead of fighting, I don't want to fight

--begging--

but if by chance the cold wind blows...

--GodGodplease--

_Candyman, candyman, candyman  
the candyman took it..._

He pulled out of Crawford's mind, pale, cold. He knew now why the American had winced so, when he had tried to take him into his arms. Slowly, he allowed a hand to travel down Crawford's body, tugging at his boxers, slipping them down over one bruised hip, bruises like fingerprints on his pale, previously unmarred skin.

"... Crawford."

"How dare you--"

"Crawford. -Crawford-..."

"You--" Schuldig's arms came up around him again, careful of his body, this time, not knowing where the American was hurt. He buried his face in Crawford's chest. Shaken. Desperate.

Afraid.

He felt a hand lift to his hair, brushing through it, soft and caring. Crawford had fallen silent with a pained sigh. Schuldig shivered faintly. He should feel pain, at each unwanted time. So why didn't he? He should have felt that fear, that hollow despair, but he didn't. Had he been so drained of everything - emotion, caring, feeling - that he was hollow? That it didn't matter, anymore? And as for Crawford -- anger was slowly replacing his discomfort, his fear, of the countless invasions of his body, his own lack of objection. Rage seeped into his veins for the American, coursing through his body with fierce pain.

"Schuldig..." The voice was soft. Crawford's lips formed the German's name perfectly, smoothly. Schuldig shuddered.

"You said...You would rather not tonight..." He swallowed, forcing himself to face the boy once more. "Do you still want to be alone...?"

Silence.

Then:

"No." The American led Schuldig back to his bed, and they eased themselves into nakedness in silence, disturbed only by the rustle of cloth as their clothing fell to the floor. Crawford slipped into the bed with a wince and Schuldig followed suit, shutting his eyes lightly at that, pain flickering over his own features. He drew the covers over them both, pulling Crawford against his chest. The American sighed softly, eyes falling shut, weary. Limp.  
_  
_Schuldig refused to sleep, even as Crawford found peace and rest, in his arms. He stared down at the sleeping almost-seventeen year old in his arms, occasionally held him tighter, his thin arms wrapped around the other's shoulders. His face was softened in sleep, pale and perfect. Schuldig bowed his head, pressing his lips to the soft skin of the American's neck.

"Es tut mir leid..." he murmured against the expanse of pale flesh, eyes squeezing shut, hair falling like a canopy over Crawford's bare chest. "Mein geliebte..."

~Mein geliebte.~

People's minds never lied. They told the truth of situations, they betrayed feelings hidden deep within a person that he or she could not voice. Complicated and hungry and puzzling as they were, they never lied.

As a result, Schuldig hated liars. Their words tasted sour in his ears, bitter to his mind. A lie was a foul thing that hid in his senses and made the sweet honey of truthful passions turn to acid. Therefore, the German never lied. He could not in his mind, and he refused to let anything other than the truth pass his lips. He could twist the truth, of course, or slant it to fit his purposes. Or he kept quiet. But he had never directly lied in his life. It would have made him ill.

"Kann es wahr sein?" Of course it was. Schuldig pulled back for a moment, fully prepared to slip out of the room and make sure he never saw the American again. What he had said -- what he was feeling -- it couldn't be right. He had to stop it as soon as he could.

But something tugged at a hidden part in his chest, making his throat tight at the very thought. Crawford shifted, murmuring something almost incomprehensible in sleep.

"Schul..." 

Schuldig froze. Crawford shifted again, his eyes opening into narrowed, questioning slits. Slowly, ever so slowly, Schuldig relaxed, easing Crawford's body back against his chest. With a slight, soft sigh, the American let his eyes fall shut again.

~What is this anger?~ Outwardly, the young boy was calm, silent, nuzzling against Crawford's neck. Inwardly, he was unsure. What was he to do? This bubble of rage building inside him needed to be relieved, the pressure almost causing him to scream in anger. In fury. From the uselessness he suddenly felt. He could not kiss the American's cheek and murmur something soft, enticing, to make the pain and the fear that he had seen disappear. He was out of his league, and he hated it.

He looked down at the sleeping boy -- almost a man -- in his arms. Carefully, he lifted a curious hand to the muscles of Crawford's pale arm, stroking the spots of shadow with graceful, slim fingers. Those fingers explored further down the arm, to the inside of his "geliebte's" elbow, surveying with hidden fascination the way the veins stood out underneath the ghostly skin. The next few hours of the night were devoted to the study of Crawford's body. When Schuldig reached the boy's bruised hip, he froze. Rage began to boil inside him once more, at the marred spot that had been so perfect a day before. He bent down to brush his lips over the spot, but he could not kiss the fingertip-shaped bruises away. He clenched his fists. Tomorrow, he would do something. Something he did not yet know, something plain and simple for revenge.

Slowly, Schuldig eased Crawford from his arms and lay him on his stomach. A slight, sleepy murmur of protest was muffled by a pillow, and the American was asleep once more. Schuldig danced his fingers over the spine before him, down to the small of Crawford's back. Below that, there was a reddish-blue bruise in the shape of a hand. His own hand was about half that size. He shuddered.

Anger again. And a sudden flash of Crawford's memory surged into his senses --

_"Be a good boy and don't tell anyone." A self-assured, self satisfied voice murmured in his ear. He stumbled forward as the hand that held him up was removed. His pants, which had been tossed aside, were returned to him. "I'm sure you have work to do. That is all for today."_

-- and Schuldig clenched his jaw, eyes shut once more. Lessons. How many lessons, like that, had he endured? He didn't want to think about it.

He forced himself to concentrate on the pale body stretched out before him. His hand trailed down over the back of one thigh, to the inside of Crawford's knee. It was soft, there, soft like baby's flesh. He leaned down to kiss it. "Warum?" He whispered. Crawford shivered faintly in his sleep, and Schuldig pulled himself away from that spot, curling up next to the American's side. "I'm tired..." His English had gotten better.

"Sleep, then."

"You're awake?"

"Ja." Crawford was too weary to smirk, but under other circumstances, he would have. As Schuldig imitated the American's own native tongue, he mimicked Schuldig's German. Together, they spoke a mixture of both languages that would have been quite amusing to any outsider's ear.

"I'm sorry. I woke you."

"Nein." He paused. "Why can't you sleep?"

"I'm angry."

"I'm too tired to be angry, Schuldig." A slight shifting of his position, a creaking of bedsprings and the sound of sheets crinkling. "Do you ever sleep?"

"... Nein." The American had shifted to take the slim German into his arms, pulling him close. Schuldig rubbed his cheek against Crawford's chest. "I'm too angry to be tired." Crawford's arms tightened around his lithe form, and a light, soft kiss was pressed to his temple.

"You should sleep."

"I can't. What was done to you--"

"Don't say it."

"How can it not be said?"

"-Don't-, Schuldig." Chastened into silence, Schuldig closed his mouth. He was not expecting what came next. "Please. If I can forget 'what was done to me', as you put it, so can you."

"But you haven't forgotten," he murmured.

"I will."

"It's too hard to forget." Crawford's head snapped up at that, mocha eyes narrowing.

"Ihnen...?"

"It's too many to remember, like you said." The American sighed, pained, tugging Schuldig closer, muscles tensing slightly against Schuldig's thin frame. The redhead was curled up into a little ball against Crawford's chest. ~It's only so long before you discover the truth.~

"...If you don't sleep, I won't. Sleep, mein Schuldig." Wide jade eyes blinked up into a pale, heart-shaped face. "Mein Schuldig," Bradley Crawford repeated, leaning down for a soft kiss.

"... Mein geliebte." Crawford lifted an eyebrow.

"I don't know what that means, Schul." Schuldig paused, licking his lips.

"Beloved," he answered finally, and then looked away, feeling foolish and quite too young to be saying such things. Inscrutable mocha eyes studied him for a moment in the eery silence of the room. He could feel them, watching him, looking him over.

"You may call me Brad," the American said finally, curtly. 

And that was really all Schuldig had ever needed to hear. It was acceptance. It was caring. In his own strange, cold way, Crawford had returned the unsure emotion Schuldig had first expressed.

The German felt somewhat giddy.

It was in that moment he realized what he had to do.

At last, in the very early morning, they both fell asleep. The time before that was spent in silence; there were times like that, between them, when they never needed to speak, and this was one of them. Schuldig woke at six, after an hour of sleep, and kissed Crawford on the cheek. He woke immediately.

"I don't want to leave," the German whispered.

"I don't want you to, either."

Schuldig pulled away, gathering up his clothes and dressing in the heavy silence. Crawford watched him, propped up on one elbow.

"I'll find you tonight?" Crawford questioned as Schuldig paused in the doorway.

"Please," was Schuldig's reply, and then he slipped out into the hall.

He spent the day running through his mind the blurred picture of the man who had done those things to Crawford the day before. Halfway through the day, the image clicked perfectly. He was an administrator who had given Schuldig more than just one lesson, since Schuldig's first years at Rosen Kreuz. Names and faces had blurred, but perhaps he had even been the first. The German quickly rifled through the files of his teachers' thoughts to find his name - Herr Mannheim. He felt a sort of anticipant fear rise in his chest as the day wore on, but he pushed it down, his cool, confident mask hiding anything he felt beneath it.

After his classes were finished, he searched the man out, not pausing to think about the consequences his plans would bring. He found the man in his office after the halls were empty. It took Herr Mannheim a moment to remember the redhead's name, but the teacher had remembered his face. A cool, thin smile tugged at his lips.

"Schuldig, is it not?" he asked calmly, looking up from a stack of papers. Schuldig nodded, calmly, keeping his motive hidden. He wasn't quite sure, yet, of how to go about this.

Herr Mannheim soon solved Schuldig's indecision. The man stepped towards the boy, his work suddenly very unimportant. "Stay still," he smirked, reaching out a hand to grab the redhead by his hip.

_//"Stay still."_

"But I want to go back..."

"Stay _still_!" A rough hand grabbed him by his hair, pulling him close, and he had felt this in Munich, night after night, he knew what this was and it hurt and--

"Be a good boy...Schuldig, is it not?"

He couldn't scream. A hand held his mouth closed and--

"I hope to see you again, Schuldig." Herr Mannheim stood, smug and cool and entirely unrumpled. Desensitized, the small seven year old could only whimper, a hand stand with his own blood.//

"I'm sure your pathetic little oracle will enjoy both of my presents. You both are too foolish... You believe you can be each other's, when you are Estë's, and no one else's."

Schuldig hit him with all he had, giving the man no warning. A flood of power, a blast of sheer force. His brain collapsed instantly under the attack. The man cried out once, blood pouring from his nose, then crumpled into a limp, lifeless ball at the foot of his chair after a mere second.

For a minute, Schuldig stood there, staring. His anger slowly disappeared, retreating back into him, and he withdrew his attack. Vacant, horror-frozen eyes stared up at him, seeing nothing. Schuldig couldn't move.

~Punishment.~

Hands grabbed him from behind, dragging him through the empty halls that were far from silent. He saw eyes watching him and heard the buzz of voices behind heavy doors. He couldn't make any of their words out. Once he thought he heard a voice he recognized, a sharp cry of "No!" and the sound of something smashing.

And then he was in the Northern Corner.

It was a different world. Everything was filled with a cruel, cold silence, not even the sound of their footsteps echoed on the walls. It was as if someone had deleted all signs of life, as if anything living was afraid to make its presence known.

For a moment, and a moment only, he wasn't afraid. A brief, breathless moment, he allowed himself to think "so what?" of the whole thing. Then, the hands tossed him into the darkest room he had ever been in in his life, and punishment began after a few moments of chilling, breathless quiet._  
_  


The sounds of screams echoed throughout the school for three solid hours. Not out loud, of course -- mental, internal; felt, more than heard.

Crawford collapsed onto Schuldig's bed, holding one of the German's shirts close to him, breathing its scent in deeply.

"You idiot," he hissed. "Schuldig..."

  
  
There is hardly anything to be said about the three hours Schuldig spent, locked in the small room that closed in on him every second. It was silence, while being shrieking, cacophonous chaos, a pure swamp of sound. It was pitch black and it was burning brightness. It was a Hell cultivated to include his every hidden fear. In three hours, the Black Room deleted his mind from his self, tore him to pieces and then sewed him back up into a shaky remembrance of who he was. He was returned to his room, broken and desperate, empty and sick, with nothing left that belonged to him...

Except for the American who waited in his bed.

"It was my battle, Schuldig," he whispered as the door was slammed shut behind him. Schuldig opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. His throat was raw and voiceless with strain, and his knees were giving way beneath him. Crawford was there in an instant to catch him as he fell. The teen held the limp redhead in his arms, taking him back to the bed and cradling him close. He spoke softly and in a low, soothing voice, stroking his fingers through Schuldig's hair as he said anything that came to mind. "He died instantly. Everyone's talking about you, and how you're simply amazing. They don't know how much, though. I saw it happening too late. You shouldn't have done that. I can't help you, now. When you can speak, you'll tell me what to do."

~Hold me.~ Crawford caught that, thin and weak as it was, and nodded, pulling off his glasses and placing them on the bedside table.

"I thought I was. Tighter? I suppose so -- as tight as you want me to. Will you be able to sleep? I doubt it." Somehow, the sound of his smooth voice was comforting. Beautiful and familiar. Just wonderful. "Mein geliebte. Schuldig."

~Keep talking...?~

"What should I say? I feel foolish." He sighed deeply. "I was worried. I'm surprised by you. -You- were foolish. Too foolish. I was mad at you at first, I almost broke everything in my room because of it. And then I was just worried. How dare you. You're wonderful. Don't ever do something like that again..."

~Danke schoen...~

"Bitte, Schuldig. Never again."

~... Never again.~

"What did they do to you?"

~...~

Crawford gave up on questioning him further. He had long since fought rage out of his system, but now, he didn't know what he was feeling. Shaking his head a bit, the American pulled Schuldig close to his chest, and smiled just faintly as the German shifted to press his cheek over the other's heartbeat. "I suppose you won't tell me, then. Was it that bad? I've never been punished." He went on, "Tomorrow is Sunday. I sometimes take optional classes then; I won't tomorrow. I'll stay with you, would you like that?"

~Ja...Bitte, Brad...Ich möchte das.~

"I will, then." He paused. Brushed his fingers over the German's cheek and then returned to tangling them in the strands of silky wildfire. So pale, compared to the flame color of Schuldig's hair. "Schuldig. Schuldig, you are a fool." He paused again, brushing a kiss over the boy's pale forehead. "My fool, if you will allow it."

~I will.~

"Good." Schuldig allowed himself a weak smile before shivering; Crawford lifted a hand to wrap a cover around his shaking body.

~I...~

"Schuldig?"

~...Danke, Brad.~ He passed out a few moments later, leaving his American frowning, though softened, and holding him tight. Crawford spoke to him late into the night, unsure if this was to comfort himself or the unconscious German in his arms. Whenever Schuldig was plagued by nightmares during the night, and that was often, Crawford was there. The American was not used to comforting anyone, but he did his best, stroking the boy's back and murmuring soft things into his ear. Relaxed things; things that Schuldig would never hear, and could therefore never remember.

  
Sundays were Schuldig's only days off. He woke late, in the slightly relaxed arms of Bradley Crawford, who was slumped against the wall in sleep. If he were not too drained to think straight, too pained to feel, he would have heard the pang of that something unnamed flash through him as he gazed upon his Bradley's face.

"Brad." His voice was scratchy, harsh, and it was painful to speak. He winced, and Crawford woke immediately.

"Schul...?" He was slightly rumpled, and the pang was loud enough to be heard quite clearly, this time.

"I...sorry, Brad, I just..." He swallowed. He needed a drink, but he still felt wobbly. Immediately Crawford stood, slipping out of his rumpled jacket and smoothing it out over a chair before disappearing into the bathroom and returning a few moments later with a cup of water from the sink in his hand.   
  
"Here," he murmured, sitting down next to the boy and pulling him close once more, lifting the cup to his lips. The water was cool and refreshing and Schuldig gulped it down gratefully.

"Thank you," he sighed, and Crawford set the cup down.

"Better?"

"Much."

"Good." A soft kiss was pressed to Schuldig's neck, and the German melted back against Crawford's chest.

"Thank you," he said again, eyes falling shut.

"Mm." After a moment of wonderful silence, Crawford spoke again, brushing his fingers through Schuldig's hair. "Are you up to anything today? Or shall we just stay like this..."

"What did you have in mind?" His voice was still a bit shaky, and Crawford frowned.

"Perhaps not..." He mused, absently toying with a brush on the bedside table. His frown grew as he ran his fingers over the bristles, sighing a bit.

"Brush my hair?" Crawford blinked.

"What?"

"...No one ever has." The American lifted a brow and the hairbrush at the same time.

"I'll hurt you."

"It's hardly tangled." Crawford almost voiced his thoughts - 'Then what's the point of brushing it?' - but stopped himself suddenly. What could it hurt? The German's hair did fascinate him, long fiery tendrils tumbling over his shoulders like silk... Slowly, carefully, he lifted the brush, and ran it gently through Schuldig's wildfire hair. It _was_ like silk. It rippled and shone, and Crawford repeated the motion as Schuldig shivered. "Mm..." The German shifted sighing softly, shoulders arching into the stiff bristles.

Carefully, Crawford swept the flame colored bangs away from Schuldig's forehead with his index and middle finger, his ring finger brushing over the German's forehead. A low purring sound started in Schuldig's throat, causing Crawford's well sculpted brow to lift further in his pale forehead. 

He kept the steady rhythm up for a good ten minutes as Schuldig relaxed, soothed, silent except for his breathing. In those ten minutes, the German's life focused around the American behind him, playing with his hair. He could almost forget the Black Room -- almost. It was still a nagging coldness in the back of his mind. But it was pushed aside for the warmth he felt, the warmth that could delete everything else but the hand on his thigh and the fingers combing through his hair. It took him a moment to realize Crawford had put down the brush.

"There," he said quietly.

"Don't ever go back to your room." Schuldig had to say the words quickly, or else he would have had time to realize how foolish they sounded.

"Can I go back to get my clothes, first?" Crawford's tone was dry; he was smirking. Schuldig looked away. "It wouldn't be allowed, you know. And I'm not letting you go back...there."

"Ja. I know."

"But I won't go back until tomorrow morning, as promised." Schuldig nodded, a bit numbly.

"I only have two more months," he said quietly. "Less, now." The American blinked, tilting his head to the side slightly and unconsciously pushing his glasses up further on his nose.

"You only have two more months for what?" He queried, curious, a bit of his usual surety slipping. If Schuldig hadn't known better, he would have thought the American was nervous. But Crawford was never nervous. At least, Schuldig had never seen him display that emotion before.

"Before the Elders come for me." Crawford frowned. 

"I hadn't known they were coming. Only two months?" Slowly, the German nodded, and Crawford pulled him yet closer. "Mein geliebte. That's still what you are, isn't it? You still will be." He held him tight, possessively so. It was glorious, to have those strong arms fighting off everything for you. Schuldig nuzzled back against him.

"Liebchen...I don't want to leave you."

"I know."

"I'll miss you," he murmured, looking down.

"And I you." The young German in Crawford's arms was staring down at his lap. He didn't know how to cry, no one at Rosen Kreuz did, but Schuldig's throat had suddenly grown tight. Crawford lifted a hand to his young lover's cheek and rubbed his thumb against the soft, pale skin. "For now, we don't have to think of it, you know." Again, Schuldig nodded. "I've never spent the day in, before. Shall we?" With the beginnings of a smile, the redhead looked up into surprisingly gentle mocha eyes. They had been raised to be killers, the slaves of Estë. Here, in each other's arms, they had found something they could call their own.

Bradley Crawford. Age sixteen. Oracle and top student in all his classes. He had never before held another human in his arms the way he held the German. He had never before been touched with such tender, amazing care.

'Schuldig.' Age eleven. Telepath of astounding power and whore in all forms. He had never before been so very happy in someone's arms. He had never before wanted any one person with such fierce, desperate passion.  
  
They spent the day and the following night in Schuldig's bed, as close to each other as they could manage. In that day, Crawford told Schuldig all of his plans, all of the things he had foreseen, and, finally, his past. During the night, Schuldig told the American every thought he requested, the workings of dreams, and, finally, his own past -- what little he remembered, shameful as it was. At six in the morning, Crawford departed.

The next two months they devoted to each other. Every night, every day off, every lunch hour they spent together. They made love every chance they could; because of this, they hardly ever slept. As a result, Crawford's grades began to drop, and Schuldig failed half his classes. It was worth it. Both knew every inch of the other's body better than they knew their own; ten to thirty minutes of each day were devoted to the process of grooming the German, as Crawford knew it pleased Schuldig so very much. Neither of the two had ever been so content.

But two months passed quickly. Crawford clung to Schuldig on their last night, and their love-making was filled with short cries and Schuldig's tears and despair.  
  
"Schul, don't leave me," he panted into the German's mouth between hot, hungry kisses. Schuldig whimpered, fingers holding fast to Brad's sides. Tears streamed down his cheeks as the American attempted to kiss them all away.

"Bitte..."

"Schul, don't leave me."

"Brad..." Crawford pulled away, his pale back glistening with sweat as he faced the wall. A painful tightening sensation in his chest as Schuldig reached out a hand to touch his lover's shoulder-blade. He ran his palm up and down the American's spine and stopped as it rested on Crawford's neck. "Gott, Brad...don't turn your back on me now..." Slowly, the pale teen turned around, dark lashes framing frankly honest eyes, which were filled with an indescribable ache.

"I don't cry," he murmured. "But you're going to leave me." Schuldig collapsed against him, weary to the bone. His heart stung and Crawford had made love to him five times that night. "I..."

"Will we ever see each other again?" His voice was muffled against Crawford's flesh, but it was fiercely trusting. If anyone knew the answer, the American did. Schuldig waited for it, pressing tender kisses to his skin.

"I don't know," Crawford replied finally.

"What does that mean?"

"No, or not for a long time." Strong arms snaked around the redhead's form, hurriedly pulling him close, holding him almost painfully tight. "We have three hours left." Schuldig shivered, his own, thin arms slipping around Crawford's waist. "I just want to hold you..."

When the morning came, they said no goodbyes. There were only kisses and longing, hungry touches. No "I'll miss you"s, no "I'll see you tomorrow night"s. Things had changed. They were both numb, and their only goodbye was a hug, fierce and crushing and filled with loss. For students at Rosen Kreuz, emotions like grief were not allowed. But the feeling of pure loss was left, a hollow space in both their chests, the pain of parting that even Estë could not plunder from them.

Crawford left at six, as usual, and Schuldig waited a mere minute to be escorted through the hallways and into a pristine white car. Rosen Kreuz disappeared into the mountains behind him, along with the young man -- a young man, now, and a boy no longer -- who sat, alone in his room, finally allowing himself to give in to tears.

It was the last time Bradley Crawford would ever cry again.

  
  



	4. Chapter Three: The Elders

Chapter Three: The Elders  
  
  
"Sometimes my mind don't shake and shift  
But most of the time, it does  
And I get to the place where I'm begging for a lift  
Or I'll drown in the wonders and the was  
And I'll be your 'girl' if you say it's a gift  
And you give me some more of your drugs  
Yeah I'll be your pet, if you tell me it's a gift  
Cuz I'm tired of whys, choking on whys,  
Just need a little because, because  
I let the beast in and then;   
I even tried forgiving him, but it's too soon..."

It hurt to even think. He had dragged himself into the bathroom and had pulled his already naked body into the shower, cold water washing, pounding, over his bloodied body. A pinkish, sticky liquid was washed clean from between his thighs and circled around and around before it finally spiraled down the drain. He had a black eye, one of hundreds he had received by fists, or bedposts, or lamps, or... Quickly, he shook his head, for his mind had begun to ramble. And, for someone in his position, it was really best not to think at all.

His red hair, no less lustrous, no less beautiful than it had been five years ago, clung to his cheeks and neck and shoulders.  
  
For five years, he had been their personal entertainer. The Elders' dog.

For three years of those five, his powers had been completely neglected.

Schuldig was seventeen years old, living in a large bedroom of the Elders' Switzerland apartment, cleaning up in the aftermath of rough, sadistic sex. It was an early morning like any other.

For the first year, he had allowed himself to entertain the ridiculous thought that somehow, a childhood love could save him. He tried not to remember one Bradley Crawford, who had no doubt forgotten him already. Whenever he did think of him, he would feel ill. The way the American had touched him, soft skin against soft skin, was so very different from the rough, calloused hands that grabbed his body now that it seemed as if those three months were a fantasy he had created. Something impossible. Something completely unreal. The ramblings of a needy mind, desperate to create something wonderful to cling to.

He pulled a cigarette out of a pack he kept on the side of the bathtub, turning off the shower and running warm water into the tub, instead. Now, all he needed was his lighter.

"Fuck."

Coming off whatever-the-Hell-it-was he had injected into his system before last night's round of supposed pleasure was going to be hard. He needed nicotine, and he needed it now. His fingers fumbled with his lighter, and he lit the cigarette as hurriedly as he could -- after four tries and almost burning himself.

At last, he took a deep drag.

Schuldig was seventeen years old, his ass fucking _hurt_ like all Hell, and he was addicted to cigarettes, alcohol, and every known drug on the planet.

One of the guests he had been sent to entertain had introduced him at age thirteen to what made his life possible. The needle, and the magical drug. Heroin. To let it run through his veins was to achieve silence, was to never experience, was to never remember. He could be taken, he could take, and he would never truly undergo the feeling of it. The dirty feeling of it. Because he was Crawford's, and the American had told him as much, but he had betrayed that. It was not the sex, the endless sex, that made him so very dirty, although he came to hate that as time passed on. It was the betrayal.

Somewhere inside him, he was still waiting for Crawford to take him away. That interminably stupid part of him that still expected -- well, he didn't know what he expected. Something. Anything.

He took another drag.

From day one, he had never been used for his telepathic abilities. Estë did not need that, yet. Instead, he entertained. They called it that because it was a neat word, not a vulgar word. It did not disguise what they did to him, although they took care to hide the bruises. 

He had discovered alcohol after the first month; cigarette's after the third. And on his thirteenth birthday, he had been introduced to drugs. On his two days off he travelled through the slum areas of the city around him, buying whatever he could with his body. They had not broken him. But by the time he was seventeen, that moment was close. In the day, the two men spoiled him with clothes, or with jewelry, or with anything else that caught the German's fancy. They beat him bloody in the night. Half the time he was drunk, or high; half the time he was bitching about his room, sulking.

In five years, he had changed. His love -- and yes, it was love, although he had no way to recognize it -- for the American had turned sour inside him. He was too thin; he rarely ate, living of his vodka and his cigarettes. Despite everything he tried to do about it, in that small, and quite stupid, part of him lurked loneliness.

"Fuck," he hissed again. The cigarette wisped smoke from between his fingers.

He was tired.

He felt ill.

He needed a drink. 

Dripping water, he pulled himself from the almost-soothing warmth of the bath. No warmth could possibly compare to-- nothing could possibly soothe like--

He shook his head and threw the cigarette to the tiles. He hadn't bothered to clean up after himself in years. It wasn't needed; one of Estë's "dogs" would lick up his mess a few minutes after he left it. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he paused to glance at his reflection.

Through everything, he had kept his beauty. He was vain; proud of the way his hair still shone like fire, proud of his thin-yet-muscled form, completely proud of his looks.

His eyes were dead, hidden by a caustic sheath of ice in the form of a cold smirk.

Quickly, he turned away from the mirror. That was something he didn't want to see, the way the light echoed in his darkened, deadened eyes. He slunk into his main room, a bed, a walk-in closet, and a little coffee table. Nothing else; that was all he needed. He pried up the mattress of the bed, pulling out a half empty bottle of vodka, and then flopped down on the bed. Of all forms of alcohol, the German preferred the Russian liquor. It was warm enough to replace arms that could hold him, good enough to make him forget hot, sweet breath on the back of his neck.

He lit another cigarette from a pack kept on the coffee table. His ass was still sore; it would be so for a couple of days.

Damn.

He shifted. Shifted again. Tugged a pillow beneath him.

No good.

With a groan, he rolled over onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. He let the cigarette dangle between his lips and drank occasionally from the bottle in his hands.

_//"It is our Schuldig. And he is not Sieben..."_

"Come here, mein Schuldig."

He trotted over obediently, jade eyes unsure of what was to happen. Hands prodded him, poked him, as mental fingers pored over his brain, tangled as if in some sort of exotic dance with his thought-waves. He shifted uncomfortably, reduced to the age of seven in the Elders' presence.

"Smart boy."

"Good boy."

"Silly boy." The old woman was the one to make that jarring comment. He could hear her thoughts frown, and it made him shiver. She bent down close to him. "You will never see him again." The German boy watched her warily from that moment on.//

It was the truth.

He took another swallow of the vodka, and allowed himself to remember again.

_//"This is your new home." _

The room before him was neat and sparse. A bed -- a rather large one -- a coffee table, and a walk in closet. The lighting was bright; there were two rather large windows.

He had never had windows in his room at Rosen Kreuz.

He hurried over, looking out over the view of the city, bright sunlight dancing in his hair.//

Now, he kept the curtains drawn at all times. His room was darker that way; he didn't have to see the places where his nails had bit into the bedpost and gouged out chunks of wood, or the way his sheets were never clean. 

He rested his chin on his palm, staring forward at the wall. Fascinating. He had memorized it, every chipping of the paint, every slight bulge where there was piping running through.

In five years, he had not gone farther than the city's border.

_//"He is in America, now."_

Schuldig looked up wearily from the bed. She_ stood in the doorway, grinning mercilessly at him. "He is in America, now, without you."//_

She enjoyed keeping him posted on Crawford's whereabouts, for the first few years, until he learned how to hide his anger, his pain from her. In the first few years, she would drink those emotions from him hungrily and laugh as she left his room.

_//"I don't know what you mean."_

"Of course you do."

"But I don't."

"He is in America, now, on business. He's been a very good little boy; Estë is proud of their best little dog. You should be proud, as well."

Silence.

"He is in America, now. Without you."//

They mocked his love until he mocked it, too. They destroyed and defiled his body until all he could do was accept it, and do the same. He had nothing left that was his own, nothing to return to when he was left alone.

_//"...Mein geliebte."_

"I don't know what that means, Schul."

"Beloved."//

"Fuck."

_//"You may call me Brad."//_

"Bastard. Get the fuck out of there..."

_//"I'll miss you."_

"And I you."//

Sunday mornings. When the memories came fast and hard and Schuldig couldn't even stop them. Perhaps, the old woman had found another way to torment him. Either way, he couldn't make that _fucking_ voice shut_ up_--

He had begun to hate it, with every bit of hate he had left over from hating himself, from hating the Elders, from hating the room, from hating the smell of alcohol and the stench of his cigarettes and his blood clinging to his body.

It made him sick.

It made him furious.

Bradley Crawford was in America. Without him.

"-Fuck-."

He rolled over onto his back, ignoring the slight discomfort that caused. He only had two cigarettes left in that pack, and he couldn't get out Sundays.

Yes. 'Fuck' certainly did describe his emotions perfectly, at the moment. In fact, it seemed to describe his emotions perfectly at all times, lately. He buried his face in his hands with a low groan, wincing at the bruise on his cheekbone. Where had he fallen, last night? He couldn't remember. He didn't want to.

A knock on the door woke him a few hours later, which meant he must have fallen asleep. He rarely ever slept any more; occasionally, his exhausted body dragged him down into rest. Immediately, something jarred the usual. Something was-- wrong.

No one ever knocked.

Schuldig's room was always entered with unceremonious haste; after all, the drunken men who came for him were rarely ever seeking out the teenager for polite conversation. Only, this was Sunday, his God-damned day off. Hurriedly, he shoved the now-empty bottle underneath the mattress, and cleaned up the cigarette ash. His voice held slight, sleep-dazed confusion as he responded.

"Come in?"

The door swung open.

There are very few people who look exactly the same from day one until they die. A person could recognize them, seeing them at age twenty, if they had seen them for a week when they were six. It is from sheer determination that their looks never change; they are used to one thing, they are used to routine and sameness, and therefore they do not allow their reflection in the mirror to change. It takes someone of great will-power to achieve this status.

Bradley Crawford, who was standing very, very straight in the doorway, was one of those people.  
  
_//"Will we ever see each other again?"_

"I don't know."

"What does that mean?"

"No, or not for a long time."//

"I hate you," Schuldig said bluntly, shocked from sleep and any possible hangover.  



End file.
